With Kelly’s rump pushed up in the air, the man stood for a moment with his hands down, riding crop held between them, twisting his grip, leather squeaking. Angel and all the other spectators watched, shifting, making uncomfortable sounds wondering what would happen next.
At the push cart’s countertop edge sat a small crock-pot bowl with a curled lip. The man held the riding crop butt-first above the crock-pot then lowered the crop’s end into the bowl. He twirled then raised it. The bulbous leather butt glistened with a coating of clear gel.
More shifting, someone cleared their throat. An older man sitting beside the dictator crossed his legs over the other way, his chair squeaking.
The man with the mask returned his attention to Kelly, whose thighs flexed, her butt moving side to side and forward and back — Angel unsure if it was fear or anticipation. She moved her hand to her chest, then touched her own throat. Her forehead was hot, her fingers cold. She knew her cheeks would be red right now.
The man pushed the butt end of the crop in the space between Kelly’s anus and vagina. Angel looked away, then shut her eyes tight. There was a slick crackling sound. Someone near her made a gasp. It was one of the women. Angel squinted and looked back to the table. The man had inserted part of the crop’s butt end into Kelly’s vagina. He no longer held it, the handle inserted deep enough that it levitated from out between her butt cheeks. He tapped the stiff shaft with an index finger and got Kelly squirming on the table, trying to move the shaft away so he couldn’t tap it. He tapped it more. Kelly flattened her stomach against the table.
Now the man touched his foot to the step-lever underneath the table, pushed on it to adjust the angle. The chains clinked as more of Kelly’s weight was supported by the manacles that held her hands. The table was angled more upright, Kelly hanging, her legs still prevented from closing by the shackles around her ankles. He produced paddle, a shining flat of cherry wood with a short handle enough space for one hand.
The man tightened his grip on the handle, leather squeaking again. He tapped the blade edge of the paddle against the crop’s shaft, like he reminded Kelly to keep her stomach flat. Kelly complied, pushing her pubic bones against the table, the riding crop laying almost flat, straight down between her legs now. With the crop out of the way, the man drew back his hand in a quick motion and brought the paddle in a bright slap against Kelly’s bare, defenseless ass. Kelly howled.
The sharp cry of a woman in pain broke Angel’s heart, and her brow furrowed. The hand at her throat clutched to a fist, and her eyes began to tear.
Again and again, the man slapped Kelly’s ass with the wooden paddle. Each time, Kelly cried out in pain, struggled on the table, fought against the chains. It went on for minutes. Slap. Pause. Slap. Pause. . . . Those pale hands of Kelly’s grabbed hold of the chains above her manacles and squeezed. She made crying sounds. She whimpered for him to stop. The man didn’t stop. Slap. Pause. Slap. Pause. Slap. . . . The crowd was breathless, watching with great intent.
One of the handsome college men in the tuxedos, standing close to the table and watching, shifted from foot to foot. He adjusted his pant leg, and the way the light shone on his fabric as he tugged showed he had an erection. Angel scowled, looked away. She was disgusted. Disgusted, but frozen in place.
Nothing preventing her from leaving. Some strange dedication to protecting this woman. Deep in her stomach something burned and throbbed. Like a glowing coal in a fire’s morning bed of ash. Hot to touch, the slightest wind kicking up bright yellow color, bringing fire . . .
The young handsome man with the erection shifted again, actually holding it now over top of his pants, squeezing. All the boys shifted. She watched them. They were getting ready for something, adjusting their jackets. One of them tugged something from underneath his cummerbund, as if verifying it was still there. She saw the corner of a translucent plastic pouch. The young man tucked it back under the cummerbund.
The man’s paddling increased in pace. The strikes came more rapid. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. No pauses. Kelly’s ass had been bright white when it was bared. Now it was blushed red. All down her thighs, the entire globes of her cheeks a bright pink. Kelly shifted and fought against the strikes now. She cried out, “Stop, ow, oh okay, please, stop, stop . . .” But he didn’t. The man kept paddling her.
Angel took a step forward, looking aside left and right to see if anybody else would interject. They all sat stone-faced. But she could see them aroused; their pupils widened, dilated, their eyes shimmering wet. Enlivened by what they watched. What was wrong with all of them that they would stay here to witness this woman being hurt and humiliated this way?
She took one more step but stopped. No one else did a thing. Shouldn’t she do something? Kelly cried out again and again, howling in pain, begging and begging him to stop. . . . Angel clutched both hands to her face, clawed at the skin under her eyes, going out of her mind. Caught in this horrible moment of knowing what was the right thing to do, but fear of breaking some unknown social protocol freezing her in place. Every sense she had told her to help Kelly. Stop this man from hurting her. But she did nothing . . .
The man stopped on his own.
Paddle returned to the push cart’s top, he adjusted his cloak, returned to Kelly who made soft crying sounds into her own shoulder. He stooped, undid first the shackle on her right ankle than the left. Now she hung from just her wrists, her grip still squeezing the chains, her toes trying to touch the floor. The man went around behind the table; there was a metallic click, and Kelly slumped down the table to her feet, manacles still around her wrists, chains dragging over the edge of the tabletop to fall at her sides. But before she moved to collapse, the man embraced her, his movement quick and graceful. He set Kelly onto her knees so she faced the crowd. Her beautiful face was contorted, and she tried to hide it from the people who watched her. All these people in a semicircle allowing this to happen. Angel included. The one she’d asked to come and watch.
Kelly’s cheeks were wet from tears and her lips wriggled in a squirmy line as she tried not to cry. That beautiful mane of gingery hair tumbled over one shoulder and hid a breast. The other breast was bare. A large and incredible teardrop tipped with a hardened nipple. She was naked to them, and from the front her pubic hair showed, a bright thatch of coppery fur. The insides of her legs glistened. Angel wondered if it was the lubricant from the crop or was it something more? — Then cursed herself for having such a perverted thought.
The man stood fully behind her, legs shoulder width apart and astride her calves, his crotch resting behind her head. He stroked her hair, petting as he presented her to the watchful patrons. He went down on one knee behind her, caressed her shoulder, then dropped an arm. He removed the crop from her insides, tossed it where it lay on the carpet, half the shaft glistening with lubricant and Kelly’s wetness.
Angel stepped back. And stepped back once more, her heel touching the wood. Practically off the carpet now. She could just pivot and leave. Walk out. Storm out. She’d done her part, this was over. She watched.
The handsome young men with the clean faces and tuxedos moved around, three on either side of her. The man with the demon mask leaned to take from the tabletop a black swath of fabric. He wound it between two fists then looped it over Kelly’s face. She dipped her chin and accepted his blindfold. Black fabric wrapped over her eyes and nose, just her pretty mouth hanging open underneath. Once the blindfold was tied, he stroked her shoulders again with his leather gloves, then pushed her forward. She fell onto her front on the Persian rug. He put her hands behind her back, wound the chains through a metal loop on the manacles and locked it in place, the manacles holding her bound behind her back. He rolled her over so she lay facing the high ceiling and its Victorian paintings, still blinded by the black material.
As Kelly writhed on the floor, the man stood and waited, the six young men watching his held up finger. When Kelly was quiet and settled, her struggle ceasing, the man let the finger down . . .
The three young men in tuxedos put hands to their crotches, slowly drew down their zippers, the unclenching of the teeth loud in the quiet room.
Angel stepped forward again, brow lowering, bewildered by what she was seeing. She put her hand over her mouth. It looked like they would all urinate on her . . .
From their flies, instead of their penises, all six of the young men withdrew a long, clear plastic tube. On the tube was a red circular valve. Each young man rotated the small plastic handles on the valve to allow fluid to pass. A stream poured from each of the young men’s tubes.
She remembered the plastic corner poking out of the one man’s cummerbund. It must’ve been an IV bag, something like you would see hanging bedside at the hospital. The fluid held in the bag, running out the hose from their zippers, warmed by their bodies, would have Kelly thinking all six men were peeing on her.
The streams splashed on Kelly’s naked body. After the sound of the zippers drawing down, she fought on the floor thinking they urinated on her, jerking left and right, her big breasts bouncing and swaying. All the young men tried to aim the streams at her face. With her mouth open, she gargled, choked, spit out, then bit her lips closed trying to prevent what she thought was urine getting in her mouth. They spritzed her up and down her body now. Since her mouth was closed they picked better targets, tinkling between her legs and on her nipples. Kelly’d been holding her breath, and now let out a loud blurt, then gasped stertorous for air. The boys tried to pee in her mouth again.
Enough was enough.
Angel darted forward, stopped . . . then continued, dropped to her knees just outside the ring of men pretending to urinate on her. “Stop,” she said, “stop . . . Kelly, it’s not pee . . . they’re not peeing on you, okay? — it’s okay, it’s okay . . .”
The boys kept the hoses turned on, still sprinkling on Kelly, but there was a murmuring. All six of them wondering what to do now. Not just them, but the crowd behind her . . .
Kelly spoke, her voice a constrained squeak. “Angel . . .? It’s not . . . They’re not . . .? Don’t . . . Aw, come on . . . why would you . . .? . . . Angel, I’m okay, I . . .” Her head turned aside, like her blindfolded eyes sought out the man who’d dragged her in here by her hair. “Don’t stop . . . Don’t . . .”
It wasn’t fear or shame in Kelly’s voice. It was lust.
One young man, the one she’d eyed earlier palming his erection, lowered to a knee at the man in the demon mask’s mute instruction. The young man fished in his open fly and drew out his erection. It was a long one, thin, pointing up to the ceiling; the plumbing hose dangled under its belly flinging droplets of water. He thumbed his long erection downward till its knot end mushed Kelly’s lips. Kelly opened her mouth and the young man slid his cock inside. Kelly sucked hungrily.
Angel wiped her eyes, vision blurry with tears. She scooted back from the circle of young men. Down Kelly’s naked body, the fake urination resuming, the man with the demon mask squatted at Kelly’s feet. That awful baleful demon gaze pointed at her. Their eyes met, and she gasped. The man had stormy gray eyes under the mask, and they saw right through her. He rose first, and then she jumped up. The demon walked around the circle of young men, coming to get her . . .
She stepped back, hoping he wouldn’t pursue her.
But he came past the boys, and now she pivoted, turned around and saw the looks of disgust from the spectators — sneering at her like she’d ruined something she had no business attending in the first place.
Face buried in her hands, tears flowed more freely. She held her breath in a tight hitch and quickened her pace, heading to the door where the butler stood, steps getting quicker and quicker, and then off the carpet, her loafers clicking on the hard parquet floor . . . then she was in the mansion’s hall, turning right, getting mixed up and turning right again, seeing a left and taking that . . .
Now she was in a narrower corridor, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her wrists, speed walking, wanting to get to the ballroom, get her bearings, get the hell out of here . . .
This hallway was unattended, the doors all closed. Near the end of the hallway she turned back to see if she was followed. She gasped and whimpered at the sight of a figure in black closing off the end of the hall.
All in black, wearing a cloak, a gold mask . . . but not the man. This figure was tall but not as tall as the demon. And not a demon’s face. It was a woman, long legs and a lithe body that strolled her way now . . .
Angel said, “I’m leaving, okay? — you don’t have to do anything . . .” Her voice was thin and tight and warbling with fear. “I’m leaving, I’m getting out of here . . .”
Still the woman strolled. Angel pivoted, heading deeper down the unattended hallway, the cherub-faced woman following behind. There was a tight knot in her stomach, and . . . and something worse, something she’d registered but ignored: Her vulva sagged like a hot, heavy mess, like an over-ripe peach had been tucked in the crotch of her panties. She squished while she sped, bewildered, scared, ashamed, so ashamed, disgusted too, hating what she’d witnessed, but . . .
Kelly’s cries of torment had done something to her that was so humiliating . . .
When she reached the door at the end of the hall, she pushed her body against it and yanked the lever. It didn’t budge, and she collided, making it rattle. In her fear, she’d pictured opening this door and tumbling out to a garden where there was a dance party, and Abby and India would see her, grab her and all three of them would flee through the ballroom, get their phones, call for help . . .
She surrendered, rested her forehead against the door then turned and pushed her back against it. The woman approached in no hurry, lean hips swaying.
Angel started to cry. It was inexplicable. Everything all falling apart at the same time.
The woman stopped six feet out with her arms to the sides, almost a religious or saintly pose. She looked up to the mask, the placid pouted baby angel face. Behind the mask the woman’s eyes hid in black.
Angel stepped slowly, slunk to the woman, and the woman closed her arms around her. Angel put her cheek against the woman’s chest and the woman stroked her hair . . .